


The Silence of Souls

by felinefelicitations



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Flower Language, Injury, Love, Love Languages, Minor Violence, Multi, Parenthood, Poly Parents, Polyamory, Power Imbalance, Single POV, a love letter to love, it is a fic with ares and his child what the fuck did you expect of course there's minor violence, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefelicitations/pseuds/felinefelicitations
Summary: “Here, Eros,” Father says, giving Eros the last strawberry, and Eros straightens up, beaming wide.He waits until Father’s attention has turned away, and then slips him a bit of his toast slathered in jam. It makes Father smile when he notices, surprised but pleased, and Eros grins wider.
Relationships: Aphrodite & Eros, Aphrodite/Ares/Thanatos, Ares & Eros, Eros & Thanatos - Relationship
Comments: 43
Kudos: 78





	The Silence of Souls

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever just like lay in bed and think about love, and how children's understanding of love is influenced by their parents and then like what that means for a kid who grows up with three parents who are all viciously protective of each other and also so deeply in love? 
> 
> Because I do. Apparently.
> 
> Welcome to my 10k treatise on love and love languages.

> _Say over again, and yet once over again,  
>  _ _That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated  
>  _ _Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,  
>  _ _Remember, never to the hill or plain,  
>  _ _Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain  
>  _ _Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.  
>  _ _Belovèd, I, amid the darkness greeted  
>  _ _By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain  
>  _ _Cry, "Speak once more—thou lovest!" Who can fear  
>  _ _Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,  
>  _ _Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?  
>  _ _Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll  
>  _ _The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,  
>  _ _To love me also in silence with thy soul._

_  
_ **-Sonnet 21, Elizabeth Barnett Browning**

Summer is hot and miserable. The air never moves, and when it does it sticks to the skin. The sun is always too hot and it burns his skin for the first week, but if he doesn’t go outside then it’s worse later. The trees all scream, laden with insects, and everyone is always so irritated with everyone else.

Summer is the best season.

They are nearly at Mother’s seaside estate. Eros knows, of course, it is technically Father’s--the prince’s--but he also knows, even though he is only nine, that it is actually his mother’s. He shoves white curls back from his face again and sweats in too many layers of linen and stares out the carriage window as they pass the gates.

He has heard that his mother used to throw very lavish parties here, but she has never done so as long as he can remember.

“Are they already here?” he asks his mother.

“Not until next week,” Mother says, lounging across from him. Her fan today is all pink dyed feathers, to match her hair, but she is dressed in whites and pale seafoam greens. It is the kind of outfit that would cause a scandal at court, he thinks, but they are not going to court.

Eros pouts and slouches down, but he doesn’t cross his arms because it’s too hot for that. He watches the white clouds on the crystal blue sky go by. He kicks a foot in a way that his mother calls _lackadaisical_ and his father--the prince--calls _petulant_ and his da--the prince’s sworn--doesn’t call anything at all.

This week is going to be _terrible_.

But it is summer, and soon, it will be the best season of the whole year.

**

Eros has always had two fathers. He loves them both, just as much as he loves his mother.

When he was five, someone told him his da was not noble. Not like his mother or his father. One of the older children, one of his cousins--Alexiares. They told him that his da would have to do whatever he said, even though he was Eros' da. It was very easy to goad Eros into things at five, and Alexiares goaded him into asking his da to do some foolish thing to prove he was right. Eros was sure his da wouldn’t do it, but his da did so without a word.

His mother was furious when she found out. It is the only time she has ever been furious with him. She had grabbed his wrist when he told her at bedtime, just the two of them, and it had _hurt_.

She never hurt him, but her grip that day hurt. He has never forgotten. Her eyes, a pale rose gold that tended more towards coy, were terrifying as she stared at him.

He was so surprised he did not even start to cry right away, like he did when she was scolding him over something stupid and he wanted to get out of trouble.

“He is your _father_ ,” Mother said, grip tight around his wrist. Her voice was so serious and so, so sharp.

Eros knew that, of course, but he did not understand what that had to do with anything.

“You will apologize to him,” she said and she dragged him with her without even putting on her evening wrap. He remembered, because she was always so serious about appearances at court.

By the time they got to both his fathers, he was a misery of snot and tears and he could barely breathe. He did not know what he had done, exactly, but it must have been _horrible_. He felt like he must have murdered his soft spoken Da, and he was almost shocked when they stumbled into the bedroom to find him sitting in a robe, Father brushing out Da’s long curls.

“Aphrodite? What has happened?” his father asked.

“Nothing,” his da said. “It’s nothing, here, Eros—”

“It was not _nothing_ ,” Mother snapped.

His father went quiet, looking between the other two, then he looked at Eros.

“Aphrodite, let him go,” Father said, setting aside the brush. He stood, and as Mother let go of Eros’ wrist, he scooped Eros up. Eros buried his face in Father’s shoulder.

They left his other two parents, both of them arguing fast and low, and Father carried him out to the small courtyard attached to his rooms. The night air was cool and it helped, a little, and Father rubbed his back until he finally stopped crying enough he could breathe.

Eros leaned back, and his father with red eyes and white hair used his sleeve to gently clean his face up.

“I’m s-sorry,” Eros choked out, but even he knew it wasn’t Father he needed to apologize to.

“What happened?” his father asked, and Eros told him what he had been telling Mother before she grabbed his wrist. He hiccuped on sobs and very nearly started crying again.

Father grew angry too--the press of his mouth that lightened his dark skin--but he did not interrupt and he did not grab Eros’ wrist like Mother had.

“I don’t know what I _did_ ,” Eros finally said.

“You were tricked,” Father said. “We should have taught you better.”

“But I did _something_. Didn’t I? Did I hurt Da?”

“You did not know.”

Eros knew, even at five, that didn’t really make hurt okay. Da had taught him that.

“Let’s go back inside,” Father said.

Mother and Da were sitting on the bed together when they got back. Mother was holding ribbons up to Da’s hair, which had him looking down and away, dark skin flush and smiling slight. Father set Eros down and Eros went to Da. He wanted to cry again.

“I’m sorry,” Eros said to Da.

Da, eyes as gold as Eros', huffed.

“I already said it was nothing,” Da said, holding out a hand for Eros. Eros crawled into his lap. “Help your mother pick a color or else she’ll take all night.”

They did not often, at his grandfather’s palace, all sleep in the same room, but they did that night. Neither of his other parents seemed willing to argue with his da over it. He fell asleep back pressed against Da’s chest, a leg draped over Mother, holding Father’s hand.

The next day, his father taught him how to break someone’s nose and his mother made him start to learn about ranks and his da told him, quietly, that it was important not to have witnesses.

**

It is a horrible week. Eros’ skin, almost as fair as his mother’s and not dark like either of his fathers’, burns the first day. He has to smear the awful clear goop his mother has one of the servants make on his skin, and the tops of his ears still hurt anyway. A sudden gust of wind snags his favourite hat and it ends up in the lake. He loses _six_ games of chess to his mother in a _row_ , which is impossible, because she is usually the only parent he can beat.

“You’re only distracted, dearest,” Mother says. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Eros is not the only one impatient, though. Mother, who always reminds _him_ to be nice to the staff, is snappish and keeps fussing with flower arrangements, though they already look quite nice. Eros stays out of her way, lest he be dragged into service, and takes a book into his father’s garden.

He loves his father’s garden. It’s nothing like the well manicured ones at his grandfather’s palace, nor the one that lines the back of his mother’s seaside estate. _This_ garden is thick with weeds grown high and a gnarled apple tree Eros has climbed nearly his whole life, vines that twist and curl around a low fence his father always talks about replacing, a few tree sprouts attempting to stake their claim. His mother _hates_ it and calls it an eyesore, but it is Eros’ favourite place in the world, maybe.

Every summer, he and his father tear up all the weeds and tame it again. It is messy, dirty horrible work, and Eros loves it. His mother will come to watch and tease, which makes his father smile, and then she’ll scream when his father tries to catch her for a kiss because he’s _filthy_ , he’ll ruin her clothes. But she’ll let Father catch her by the wrist and then give him a kiss anyway.

He asked his mother once why she does it, even though it always plays out the same.

“Why, we love each other, darling,” she said. “What’s a little dirt, in the end, to make him happy?”

That isn’t now though. Right now it is the most boring week in the world, the week they have to wait until Father and Da both arrive. He clears the old bench a little and perches carefully to try and avoid getting too much dirt on his clothes, opens the book on his lap, and starts to read.

**

Eros doesn’t remember how old he was when he was taught to only address Da as _Ser Thanatos_ except in private or the seaside estate. It was just always how it was. He remembers it was hard to say, and for a long time he only said _Ser_.

It was when he was learning about ranks from Mother that it finally struck him as odd.

“Why,” he asked very slowly with a frown, kicking one foot idly.

“Why?” his mother prompted.

“Why are you Mother and not Princess Consort….” He trailed off. He didn’t really know his mother’s name, he realized. Da called her _Dite_ and Father called her _Love_ and Eros called her _Mother_ or, when he was upset, _Mama_.

“Because I am your mother,” she said. Mother was not a very patient person, but she was being very patient right then. They had spent all morning going over the ranks of the different people at court and he wanted to go run and play, but he also felt like a thought was beginning to form and he did not really like it.

“And Father?”

“Is your father.”

“But Da’s my father, too.”

Mother was looking at him, elbow leaned on the table, resting her chin in her hand. He would get yelled at if he sat like that, but they were alone and she was slouching and she just looked… he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen her look sad before. But he thought that’s what it was.

“Isn’t he?” Eros’ wrist was still bruised from when she had grabbed it. He could still remember how sharply she said _He is your **father**. _

“Yes,” Mother said.

Eros thought about all the ranks he had been learning. Dukes and duchesses and earls and baronets and knights.

“What,” he finally asked, “is a Ser?” He had not heard it once all morning.

“It is polite,” Mother said.

“Is it… not a rank?”

“No.”

“Is that why I can’t call him Da?”

“Yes.”

He frowned. Then he scowled. That was _stupid_. He kicked his foot, this time angrily.

“That’s _stupid_ ,” he told his mother, even though he always got in trouble for calling things stupid. Mother said it wasn’t _proper_ for a prince. “He’s _Da_.”

“It is _very_ stupid,” Mother agreed. Eros' mouth fell open. Mother _never_ called _anything_ stupid. She would say _vapid_ or _absurd_ or _dim_ , but never _stupid_. “But your da does not have a rank, Eros. He is only sworn to your father. It makes the rules different. You must remember, and be very careful not to let your cousins trick you again, do you understand? Most children aren’t so lucky to have two fathers, and it makes them so _terribly_ jealous.”

“I will be,” Eros promised. It was hard, remembering all the ranks, but he would. He would learn _everything_. He did not want to hurt Da ever again.

Besides, Eros hated most of his cousins. They were always trying to trick him. _Their_ fathers weren’t the crown prince _and_ they only had one father _each_. Eros couldn’t think of anything worse, except maybe _no_ fathers.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Mother said. She sat up, clapping her hands together and shedding the sadness on her face for the smile he knew much better. “It’s time we had a bit of lunch. All that _studying_ , awful. We both deserve a break.”

They had lunch together, and then after he was allowed to go play. He went to find his cousin, the older one who had tricked him.

“Prince Eros,” his cousin said, grinning brightly.

They were alone, which was very important.

“Alexiares,” Eros said brightly, as if nothing was wrong. Then, without breaking stride, he drove his heel down on the top of his cousin’s foot. Just like Father had said it would, it made his cousin yell and also start to fall. That was very important--Alexiares was four years bigger than him, and he needed all the help he could get. Eros grabbed his cousin’s hair and used it and the fall to drive his face into Eros’ knee.

Then, while his cousin laid on the ground bleeding and crying, Eros tore his own sleeve and made sure to fuss the front of his clothes so it looked like he had not started the fight. Then, last of all, he made himself cry his _best_ cry, the one that always got him out of trouble with everyone but Da, loud and ugly and shrieking.

It brought a servant of course, which then brought parents, namely fathers. As his uncle Heracles and his father the prince argued on the matter of who started what and were not looking at him, Eros smiled at his cousin, small and sharp like Da did when he snared a rabbit.

Alexiares did not much play with him, after that.

**

It is the fifth night since he and his mother arrived. The heat of the day still has not broken. Eros tosses his sheet off and lays in his nightshirt and stares up at the ceiling. The insects at least have stopped screaming, but the quiet sound of the sea isn’t much relief either. There is no breeze, so even though he has windows thrown open, the air is still too heavy and too still.

Outside, he hears the sound of hooves and the jangle of tack.

Eros shoots out of bed and runs out of his room, barefoot and without his robe. He runs down the hall and into the main entry, shoves open one of the front doors and runs outside and there, _finally_ , are Father and Da, both dismounting their horses, their white hair near glowing under the bright moonlight, both dressed _rustically_.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Da asks, managing to frown with his lips even as his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Eros doesn’t answer, only flings himself at them both. They smell of sweat and horse, but Eros doesn’t care because they’re finally _here_ , and early _too_.

“It’s been _horrible_ ,” he says. “I lost my hat and I got sunburned and it’s been so hot and I keep losing to Mother at chess and—” he steps back, looking up at them. “But you’re here now.”

“We are,” Father says and ruffles his hair. “Let me put the horses away.”

“I can—” Da starts.

“No,” Father says, reaching up to cup the back of Da’s neck. “Not here.” Father kisses Da, then pulls back a little. “Go inside, Thanatos. I’ll be after shortly.”

“You’re terrible at putting the tack away,” Da says, but he doesn’t argue more than that. He never has, not any summer that Eros can remember, and _finally_ , finally, Eros can grab his da’s hand to drag him inside.

“You need a _bath_ , Da,” Eros says, enjoys the way _Da_ flicks off his tongue, the feel of holding the syllable a little long. Glances up through his hair to see the way it makes Da smile, makes his whole face relax.

“Do I?”

“Yes. You smell like horse and sweat and it’s _disgusting_.”

Eros leads him inside and towards the baths. The baths here aren’t as nice as the ones at his grandfather’s palace, but Eros likes them better anyway. Eros already _had_ a bath, but he will have another, he thinks. Or at least splash his feet some. He might even do _both_.

It is _finally_ summer proper.

**

Eros has always loved bathing with his family. It is a thing that only happens in summer really, because at grandfather’s palace there are so many rules on who can use which baths. But here, at his mother’s seaside estate, it is really just they four and the most trusted of his mother’s staff that are almost but not quite family, too.

He likes how relaxing it is. He likes that he can splash Father and start a fight that will sometimes even get Mother involved. He likes the way Da always pretends he won’t get involved, but then will help Eros dunk Father and cause an even bigger splash that makes Mother shriek. He likes the way he can sometimes get Father to toss him into the bath, though he shouldn’t. He likes the way Mother scrubs his hair clean, and he likes helping her wrap hers up so it won’t get wet.

He likes, best of all, to watch Father clean Da before they get in the baths.

Da has always been quiet and reserved. He always stays a step behind, at grandfather’s palace. He always smiles slight and frowns slight. He always holds himself with all the posture that Eros is supposed to have but doesn’t, not really, because Eros is nine and his da is much more than nine.

Eros finds the idea that he might ever be in love with anyone hard to believe, but he is very certain he knows what love looks like. It looks like Da sighing and relaxing as Father scrubs his back, his head dipping forward, and all his careful posture melting away. It looks like Father and all his attention focused to the task, serious a way Eros never really sees him be anytime else. It looks like the careful way Father rinses soap sud and lather away. It looks like the kiss Father presses to Da’s forehead, after, and Da’s face flushing but him still relaxed a way he never is at grandfather’s palace.

Sometimes, Eros feels like he’s invading a private moment and he looks away before Father kisses Da’s forehead.

**

The first _proper_ day of summer breaks and they do not even wake up on time, because there isn’t really an on time in summer but Eros always tries to wake up early anyway. It is comfortable in the bed with his parents, and it is comfortable to be carried to the breakfast table, still half drowsing, in his Father’s arms.

Da and Father are both so strong. Eros is _nine_ , and yet they both can still carry him so easily.

Breakfast is comfortable, too, even if it’s simple, because there are not as many cooks here. Mother and Father and Da all talk, sometimes about things Eros knows and sometimes things he doesn’t. Eros does not pay too much attention, just kicks one foot lazily and watches them. How Mother slips a bit of her toast to Da, how Da saves the last of the currants for her.

“Here, Eros,” Father says, giving Eros the last strawberry, and Eros straightens up, beaming wide.

He waits until Father’s attention has turned away, and then slips him a bit of his toast slathered in jam. It makes Father smile when he notices, surprised but pleased, and Eros grins wider.

After breakfast and dressing, Eros finds Da in the stables, fussing over the horses that Father put away properly.

“Da, we need to check the birds,” Eros says as seriously as he possibly can.

“You’re right,” Da says, equally serious. His hair, usually carefully braided out of the way, is loose, the ends curling at his shoulders. Some of it has been pulled back from his face to make a circlet. He is dressed different too, in soft blues and deep browns. Eros thinks it suits him much more than the blacks he always wears at grandfather’s court, and wonders if Mother or Father picked it out.

Da is _terrible_ at pairing colors.

One of Eros’ earliest memories is riding Da’s shoulders, Da pointing out birds and telling him their names. The memory doesn’t have words, really, but it has colors--a brilliant blue, black that shimmered green and purple, light warm browns.Soft bits of memory too: Da picking up feathers, Mother’s smile and a pleased _Thanatos, you shouldn’t have_.

He still can ride Da’s shoulders, but now he knows the birds, too. His favourite is the dove, though it’s very plain compared to the others. He likes how white they are--it reminds him of Father and Da’s hair, which is also the same color as Eros’.

They go out together, and Eros takes Da’s hand.

They leave the garden behind the house and pass by Father’s garden, still a mess, and then they walk through fruit trees and over soft hills. It is still terribly hot, but there is at least a breeze today and as they get closer to the sea, the air cools just a little. They both point out birds, and Eros almost knows as many as Da now.

It is nearly noon by the time they reach the little rocky beach.

“We forgot a bucket,” Da says, considering the sand and the surf.

“We can carry them back in my vest,” Eros says, because he deeply regrets wearing it.

“Your mother will kill me, and so will Acacia.”

“They will _not_ ,” Eros says, but he is not sure. Acacia is _terrifying_ when she is angry, much more so than anyone else he knows. She is old and certain and Mother adores her, so she can do nearly anything. She has never hurt Eros, of course, but still. Crossing her is very risky. Once, he spilled ink on a pair of cream colored breeches and then she made him spend _hours_ trying to get it out. Or at least an hour. He’s been very careful about ink ever since.

“I’d rather not chance it,” Da says.

They take their shoes off, and then their stockings, leaving them on a rock with Eros’ vest that he will _not_ be wearing a second longer, even if they won’t use it to carry clams back. The sand is very hot, but the sea feels wonderful, and they spend the noon garthering clams together. Eros is certain the back of his neck is even more sunburnt now, but the clams taste wonderful.

“Do you think Mother would like shells?” Eros asks, when they are getting ready to go back.

“You should take her some and see,” Da says.

Eros gathers up four he can find that also match, small glossy things banded orange and white, then he stares at his stockings and shoes--no matter how hard he tries, he always ends up with sand trapped between his stocking and his skin, and he almost thinks he will try to walk back the whole way barefoot.

“That terrible?” Da chuckles and Eros flushes, just a little. “I’ll carry you back.”

“It’s all right,” Eros says quickly.

“Let me carry you before you get too big for it,” Da says and Eros relents.

It _is_ fun being carried on Da’s shoulders, even if it feels a little more terrifying than when he was smaller. He tells Da of his music lessons and sings some of the songs he has been learning on the way back, and then Da teaches him songs that Eros _never_ would learn in music lessons. Da’s singing is rough and low but pretty; Eros loves it.

Da always pretends he can’t sing at all in front of Mother and Father. Mother and Father _never_ tell Da his singing is bad, and Da always grins at them when he finishes. Eros had asked once why he did it. Da had smiled and said sometimes it was just nice to see if they really _did_ love him so much.

When they get back and pass by Father’s garden, Father is there working and Mother is leaning against the fence that really should be replaced, watching him and teasing.

“ _There_ you two are,” Mother says. “We looked _everywhere_ for you.”

“You mean you had _me_ look everywhere,” Father says, pausing from ripping up weeds.

“Yes, that’s what I _said_ , darling.”

Da crouches, and Eros slips from his shoulders onto the ground. The ground is soft and warm beneath his feet; he digs his toes in a little as he pulls out the four shells he brought back.

“These are for you!” Eros says, presenting the glossy seashells to his mother.

“Oh, _Eros_ , you shouldn’t have!” Mother says, sweeping him into a hug. Eros grins up at her. “They’re lovely.” She takes one, holding it up to tilt back and forth, then she takes the rest. “I know just what to do with these.” She presses a kiss to his head, then finally notices his lack of shoes and stockings. “ _Eros_.”

“It’s fine,” Da says, holding the shoes and stockings up in his off hand.

Mother still pouts, just a little, but it is summer and she will forgive him nearly everything right now. She always has every summer, as long as Eros can remember.

“Inside,” she says. Da hands him back his shoes and stockings with a small little smile.

“Be nice, Dite,” Da says and he kisses the corner of her mouth, casts his eyes down with a shy smile. Like always, it makes Mother huff and tap Da on the nose.

“I know what you’re doing and I do not like it one _bit_ ,” Mother says, but she is nearly laughing, like always, and Eros risks a grin too. “Your da is _awful_. Look at him, he’s better at manipulation than even _me_.”

Da only looks more shy--Eros pays attention to how he does it, because no one manages it better than Da. The way Da curls his shoulders in, the way he casts his eyes down and tilts his face a little away, keeps his lashes near his cheeks, how he catches one of his wrists with the other hand lightly. Mother huffs again, then grabs his hair and pulls him into a kiss, smiling as pleased as a cat when she pulls away.

“Now, inside,” Mother says, but this time Eros knows he’s forgiven the lack of shoes entirely.

Da winks at him as soon as Mother’s turned her back, and then joins Father in Father’s little mess of a garden.

Eros casts one last look back over his shoulder before he is pushed inside, catches sight of Da and Father, both on the bench, relaxed into each other.

“Now, let’s put these shells somewhere safe for now, hmm?” Mother says, holding one up again.

**

Two years ago, when Eros was seven, was the worst summer of all. Father and Da were both away and Mother did not know if they would get to come at all. Something to do with a border duchy, and since Da went where Father did, it meant they both were gone.

Eros tried, very hard, to be understanding, but he was seven and summer was the only time that he had them all to himself and didn’t have to worry about cousins or nosy servants or _anything_.

About halfway through the summer, Eros came to breakfast to find a messenger, who looked very tired and also very awake at the same time. He was sitting at the dining table and Mother was furious, eyes wet.

There was a letter open by her on the table.

Eros looked at her and her fury he had only seen once before and felt his stomach sink.

“Eros,” Mother said and her voice very nearly did not shake at all. “Come here, dear. Have some breakfast.”

Eros took the seat next to her, chewing his lip. He swung a foot slowly, and stared at the messenger. He thought he recognized him--he had seen him at court, once or twice, he thought. There were only a few royal messengers, after all. He tried to remember their names, but it was still hard for him, especially for the faces he did not see often.

“Hey there, little prince,” the messenger said. He was helping himself to the breakfast Mother had not touched, though now Mother was piling a plate high with toast and fruit for Eros.

“Hi,” Eros said.

Mother set the plate for Eros down, set the jar of jam next to it, then picked up the letter and stood.

“I’ll be back shortly,” Mother said, leaving Eros and the messenger alone.

Eros hesitated a moment, then he grabbed one of the still warm boiled eggs from the basket because Mother had not. It gave him something to do with his hands while he swung his foot, worriedly, and stared at this messenger he did not know. He did not do a very good job of peeling it--bits of eggshell went everywhere, and sometimes the white came up with the shell--but he did not really care. His stomach felt very bad, like it had been tied into an ugly knot. He chewed his lip and swung his foot and stared at this tired but awake messenger.

“Is Father all right?” he finally asked.

“Yes, and quite angry about it too,” the messenger said. He helped himself to more toast, dragging the jam jar back. “Impressive, really! He’s always had a temper, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen it. Does he get angry much with you?”

Eros shook his head, dropping the mostly peeled egg onto the plate. He did not really want to eat, but he also knew it was impolite to waste food. He ate a strawberry.

“No? Good. Little surprising, considering his dad!”

Eros wanted to ask about Da, but it was summer and they were at his mother’s seaside estate. He did not know how to ask. What should he call Da? _Ser Thanatos_ was all wrong for here, but he didn’t know this messenger either and he worried the messenger might try to trick him.

“You have anything you want me to take back with your mother’s letter?” the messenger asked.

Eros thought about how Mother always gave Father and Da ribbons before they went left court for a long time. She always tied them neat around their arms and gave them both a kiss and told them to come home soon before she got bored and took over the court. Eros did not have many ribbons--he wore his hair like Father, not Da--but he had other things, and maybe one of them might work just as well.

“Yes,” Eros said.

He left his plate mostly full of food. He ran back to his room and dug through what he had available. He had less here than he did at grandfather’s palace, but maybe that was better. What he had here mattered much more to him.

Eros went back, a raven's feather and kite’s feather clutched in hand. Mother was at the front door, giving a sealed letter to the messenger.

“There you are,” the messenger said. He knelt down, taking both feathers. “Very nice choices.”

“Don’t waste time,” Mother snapped. The messenger just smiled and ruffled Eros’ hair.

“See ya, little prince, Aphrodite,” he said, and then he left.

Eros hesitated a moment, then looked up at Mother. She was still scowling, arms crossed, and he could hear her tapping one foot as she stared at the door the messenger had left through. She looked down at him, scowled deeper.

“Go put on something you can ruin,” she said.

Eros blinked at her, but he did as he was told. When he came back, she was in a dress more like the staff wore--simple but well made, with an apron--and a very wide brimmed hat. It was very _rustic_. He didn’t know his mother had anything like it.

“Let’s go,” she said.

They went past the garden behind the house to Father’s overgrown garden. It was making a very good attempt at breaking free of its old fence, that year, because summer was nearly half done and no one had bothered to touch it.

“Just because your father isn’t here doesn’t mean we can let this take over the estate,” Mother said. She put her hands on her hips, scowling and furious and she looked, Eros thought, a bit like the paintings of generals preparing to go to war.

They worked almost all the morning, stopping to eat a little lunch, and then worked the rest of the afternoon. Eros fell asleep on the bench at one point, exhausted, but when he woke Mother was still tearing up weeds, some of her pink hair escaping its braid and sticking to her neck. Her hands were covered in dirt and so was her apron and the rims of her eyes were just a little red.

They spent every day working in the garden, after that. They planted chamomile and heliotrope and a few tiny rose shrubs that would not bloom that year, they were so small. They dug up hibiscus bushes and planted them in each of the corners. They ripped up old vines and replaced them with tender honeysuckle ones that they tied with ribbons to the fence, to coax them to grow around it. It was nothing that Father would plant, Eros thought, but it passed the time and it gave them both something to do.

They both of them complained _endlessly_ of the work, which was very fun, and meant they did not have to talk about how it was just the two of them and not summer at all.

**

It is night and storming out and though Eros is nine, the lightning and sound of the sea crashing and the windows rattling wakes him and he finds that he cannot stop jumping every time lightning flashes, nor when the thunder booms shortly after.

He gets out of bed quietly and pulls on his robe, this time, and makes his way into the dark and quiet hallway. He will get a little milk, he thinks, and then try to sleep again. He is _nine_ and he is _not_ afraid of thunderstorms anymore.

Lightning flashes and there is someone else in the kitchen and he almost, _almost_ shrieks.

“Eros,” Father says, startled.

Eros makes himself breathe, heart still racing.

“The storm woke me up,” Eros explains. “I’m only getting a little milk.”

“A very fine plan,” Father says. He sets the bottle of wine on the counter and before Eros can stop him, Father has scooped him up and set him next to it. Eros kicks a foot, a little thrilled to be doing something he knows he’s not meant to, and watches as Father gets a pot and finds the milk, watches him stir the low fire. Eros was not going to heat it--he’s not yet allowed to mess with the fires--but he does not complain.

The storm feels a little farther away here, even though Eros knows it’s not really.

“How are your riding lessons going?” Father asks, minding the milk so it does not scorch. Eros swings a foot thoughtfully, heel lightly tapping against the cabinet beneath him.

“I already told you,” Eros says.

“Indulge me.”

Eros does. He is--not sure he likes riding, not like Da or Father do. The pony he is learning on is very _spirited_ , Father has said. That is supposedly a good thing, though Eros certainly doesn’t feel that way. Father hands him his milk at some point, but he does not interrupt. Eros keeps talking, roaming from his riding lessons to fencing lessons to his music lessons with his uncle, which he likes much more.

Mother and Da both arrive while he’s talking--Mother holding Da’s wrist looking annoyed, Da behind her looking mostly asleep, but they don’t interrupt. Mother uncorks the wine that Father had set aside and fills glasses while Da drags a chair out and collapses onto it and the staff table both.

“Here, a sip,” Mother says, even though it’s not watered even a little.

Eros does and wrinkles his nose. It’s very dry and a little tart and he is not sure he likes it at all. It makes Mother laugh and Father chuckle; Da doesn’t say anything at all, head on one arm and asleep. His robe has slipped off one shoulder and there’s a few bruises--Eros doesn’t know how he got them, but he imagines it must have hurt. It’s such an odd place to get bruises.

There’s another roll of thunder; Eros jumps. He’d forgotten all about the storm while he talked.

“Oh, darling, the storm is awfully loud tonight, isn’t it?” Mother says, petting his hair. Eros flushes. He’s _nine_ , he shouldn’t be frightened of storms anymore. That’s for _babies_ , and he is old enough for riding lessons and archery lessons and fencing lessons. “Here, finish your milk and you can sleep with us.”

“I’m not afraid,” Eros mutters into his milk.

“Of course you aren’t,” Mother says. “But your da is _horribly_ afraid of storms, did you know? Isn’t he, Ares?”

“Terrified,” Father says, perfectly serious the way he only is when he’s pretending to be, and takes a sip of his wine where he is leaning against the other counter.

Eros considers Da, who is very soundly asleep and has not flinched once for any of the thunder, not even when he was awake. He thinks about how Da is afraid of cats but says he’s not, and how Mother pretends she is to give him an excuse to get away from them. He thinks about how Father tries to pretend he’s at all interested in the latest court gossip because Mother is, and how sometimes Da--who _loves_ the gossip--will still feign an emergency so Father has an excuse to leave.

It makes his chest feel warm, realizing what Mother and Father are doing for him.

“Maybe I should sleep with you, too,” Eros says. “If they scare Da.”

“That’s _precisely_ what I was thinking,” Mother says.

They all go back to his parents' room together, and even though the storm is still very loud and very angry, Eros falls asleep in moments as soon as they are all in the bed, burrowed between his mother and da and clutching his father’s hand.

**

Two years ago was the only time they did not leave when they usually did. Eros did not notice at first, but then one day he realized that the layers of linen weren’t miserable at all. He thought about asking his mother, but ultimately he asked Acacia.

“Ask your mother,” Acacia said. She was making him help fold the linens she was pulling from the line. He was fairly certain none of his cousins had to help with this sort of thing, but he thought it was a little fun. He liked how the sheets would billow in the wind and how they were a little warm from being in the sun.

“But I asked you,” Eros said with a pout.

“Do I look like I can divine your mother’s whims, boy?” Acacia said, that hint of anger in her tone that made Eros shut up before she dragged him to help _wash_ the linens next time. He _hated_ that.

“Someone needs to take care of your father’s garden,” was all Mother said when he finally asked her over dinner. Eros did not point out that Father did not take care of it after summer was over, because he had found a book of flowers. He could not read very much, yet, but he could a little and the book had lovely pictures. He had Acacia to help him sound out the words he did not know under the flowers Mother had planted and he thought he understood why she'd picked them.

Then, one afternoon, he heard horses and the sound of a carriage. He thought maybe they would be leaving the next day, then, because that was usually the only time he heard the carriage and horses after they arrived. It was only odd because Mother had not mentioned or made him pack anything at all. He had been picking lemon balm and gathering oak leaves for his mother, because the flower book said they meant _sympathy_ and _strength_. He still didn’t quite know what sympathy _meant_ at seven years old, but it sounded nice.

He took them with him in the basket he had borrowed from the gardener, Drosos. He went in through the back entrance. There was yelling, which made him pause, and then he realized it was _Mother_ yelling.

He dropped the basket and ran, very nearly losing his footing when he turned down the hall, following Mother’s voice. She was yelling about _shouldn’t travel like **this** _and _you_ _stupid stupid_ _man_ and _y_ _ou’re not meant to get **hurt**_ , and even though Eros was _supposed_ to knock, he pushed into his parent’s room without doing so, stopping short and chest heaving.

Mother and Father were both there; they both looked at him. Mother stopped yelling and crossed her arms with a huff, one foot tapping against the floor. Father smiled and Eros felt tears stinging his eyes. He ran into his father’s arms, hugging him tightly, and Father picked him up easy.

Eros finally managed to stop crying enough to pull back.

“Where’s Da?” he demanded, twisting to look.

“Here,” Da said, just barely louder than a whisper, the same moment Eros saw him sprawled on the divan, only just staying upright by leaning against the arm. His eyes were barely open and he was breathing so quiet and his hair was too short. He was in loose pants and a looser linen undershirt, not at all proper. Da held out a hand, opened his eyes a little more. “Let me see you.”

“Be gentle,” Father said, setting Eros down, at the same time Mother said, “Absolutely _no_ hugs.”

Eros was seven but he wasn’t stupid--he could _tell_ he couldn't hug Da. He didn’t point that out to either of them, just stood in front of Da. Da took his hand, rubbed his thumb across the back of Eros’ hand, and then he gave a very tired smile.

“I am sorry I made us late,” Da said. His voice was very much too quiet, and his breath so careful.

“It’s all right,” Eros said and he swallowed down the sob trying to creep up his throat.

“All the same.” Da’s eyes were drifting shut again, but he kept rubbing his thumb over the back of Eros’ hand.

“Bed,” Mother said, in the tone of voice that none of them could argue with. “Talking later. Wait, _no_. No talking! You shouldn’t, you’re going to hurt yourself more, I cannot _believe_ you—”

“Go tell Acacia to have soup made for dinner,” Father said as Mother kept scolding Da, gently pulling Eros away and pushing him towards the door. Eros hesitated a moment, looking back, catching a glimpse of Mother helping Da up even though he was much bigger than her and she was not very strong at all.

He found out later from Father what had happened. Much of it didn’t make very much sense to him--he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to kill his father--but he did understand that Da had taken an arrow to the side that was meant for Father. He understood it had gone very deep, and that they were very lucky Da had not died right away because it had even gotten to his lungs. They were even more lucky Eros’ uncle Apollo had gone, too, and they were extra lucky nothing had gotten infected. Da was still healing, would be healing for months, and maybe he shouldn’t have traveled at all, but Da had demanded to go _home_. If there was one thing Eros knew, it was that Father never could really deny Da or Mother _anything_.

Eros wanted to yell at Da like Mother had. He’d rather Da heal safe than risk getting worse. Even though he was seven, he _knew_ how bad arrow wounds could be. It had only taken a single arrow to kill Achilles, after all, and Achilles had been one of the greatest warriors of all.

They all of them took turns sitting with Da and helping him. There was a great deal of soup and stew and porridge, but since it wasn’t summer, that wasn’t so bad really. His uncle Apollo came and Eros got in trouble for not practicing music all summer, and then his uncle and his father had a fight about _soap_ , of all things. It made Mother relax, which made Eros relax just a little.

Da slept more than he didn’t, especially at first. He would watch them when he was awake, gold eyes drifted half closed, and eat what he was given and listen and talk very little. He would catch their hands and rub his thumb across the back.

Once, Eros saw him take Mother’s hand and close his eyes and kiss her palm before pressing his cheek into her hand. Mother flushed scarlet and stopped talking mid sentence, then took her hand away and swatted him on the nose. It made Da grin, just a little sharp, and Eros _finally_ , finally believed that Da was going to be all right.

**

Summer is nearly over. Father’s garden is tame, dense with the smell of honeysuckle and roses. This year they planted tulips, too, all red and vibrant. Father had huffed when Eros asked to plant them, but he hadn’t said no. Father can never say no to the people he loves.

Eros tries not to abuse it _too_ much.

Mother has planned a picnic for them. She is fussing looking through the pretty basket and Acacia is explaining to her, with _far_ more patience than Acacia ever gives Eros, what is inside. She has shoved a blanket in Eros’ arms to carry, and because he is nine, he does not protest they could simply sit on the ground like he would when he was younger. A basket full of bottles of wine, for his parents, and bottles of lemonade, for Eros, has been foisted upon Da.

Father, they all know, will have to carry the basket with the food.

Da sings terribly as they walk to the beach, catches Eros’ eye and grins as Mother and Father both avoid mentioning how awful it is. Eros points out birds for his mother, who still asks him questions about them though she is not very interested in birds, and Father talks idly of a bit of court gossip that has made it all the way to them, much to both Da and Mother’s delight.

At the beach, Mother yells at he and Da both for going to play in the surf, huffs and hides a smile when they bring her back clams and pretty seashells. Father complains of having to repack all the baskets, but then when Eros tries to help shoos him off. They all of them lay on the large blanket, even Mother who protests it will ruin her dress, and Eros dozes as he listens to them talk about idle things, some he knows and some he does not.

Summer is nearly over; they will have to go back to his grandfather’s palace and the court. They will have to go back to stealing the moments they get to enjoy all summer in peace. It is horrible, but still, it is better than two years ago and not knowing when they could leave at all.

It is not so bad now, Eros thinks. There’s so many ways they can still talk now.

“Oh, _right_ ,” Mother says, and Eros stirs from his sun warm nap, stretches a little.

“I am not unpacking the baskets again,” Father says, not opening his eyes.

“No, no, you don’t need to. _Here_ ,” Mother says. She sits up, elbowing Father and making him grunt in annoyance, then digs in her skirt pockets.

That _does_ make Father open his eyes and sit up, and it makes Da sit up and Eros, too. Mother has pulled something from her skirt pockets--four somethings. The seashells that Eros gave her, but now each has a clasp and thin gold chain.

“One for each of us,” Mother says, pleased. “Aren’t they lovely? And before you protest you only wear your signet and _you_ wear no jewelry at all, you can put them under your _shirts_ , you horrible bores.” She tosses her head, voice the steel that none of them can argue with.

Eros takes one eagerly and holds it up. He already liked the shells, which is why he gave them to her, and she _had_ said she had plans, but he had never thought she might do this. And one for _each_ , so even when they are at court, they will still have a little bit of summer's heat against their breasts.

“Thank you, Mother,” he says, hugging her.

“Of course, darling,” she says, hugging him back. “Now let go before you get sand all over me.”

**

Two years ago, Father went back to court before they did--he had no choice as the crown prince and he had already been away too long. Eros tried to stay by Da’s side more to make up for it.

It was different again, with only Mother and Da. It was not really better than court--Eros was always worried about how Father was doing, all by himself, and though Father sent them letters that Mother read for them, and they sent back letters, too, it wasn’t the same at all.

One day, when he was chewing his lip and staring out the window and wondering if maybe he could send Father more feathers, or perhaps dry out a few flowers for him, Da very suddenly spoke.

“We should see how the birds are doing,” Da said, evenly. His voice was much stronger, now, and his breathing better. He got restless, because he was not very used to bedrest at all.

“What?” Eros asked, puzzled.

“Outside,” Da said.

“You’re supposed to stay in the house.” Eros chewed his lip harder. The air was cold and dry, which Eros’ uncle had said was not very good for Da’s lungs. The only person Eros was more afraid of than Apollo was Acacia.

Apollo had never hurt him, of course. He was just scary.

“Where is your mother?” Da asked.

“Napping, I think.” There was always one of them with Da, as much as they could. Mother always made Eros sleep at night, so she took naps often during the day.

“Then it will be fine.” Da stood up and started to dress himself. “Go fetch your coat.”

Eros hesitated. Maybe he should lock Da inside the room. Mother had told him he should, if Da was too much trouble.

“Eros, what if all the birds have died?” Da asked.

He had no _idea_ why his Da was suddenly so obsessed with _birds_. They couldn’t have all died--Eros had even seen a crow just that morning. Eros got his coat and went with Da anyway. He would not be able to carry Da back if he got hurt or was too weak to walk back, but he _could_ run and get help, and that was much better than letting Da go by himself.

They had to sneak out past Acacia.

“Look,” Eros said, “there’s a crow.”

“So that’s one,” Da said. “But what if it is the only?”

Eros huffed and stamped as they walked. It did not make Da see reason, but it did make him smile and it made Eros’ feel a little warmer despite the cold air. They walked through the bare fruit trees and over gentle hills, and Eros pointed out every bird he could and Da nodded and hummed and wondered if they might find more.

Eventually, they ended up at the sea. Da picked up a stick.

“Have you learned how to dig up clams yet?” he asked.

“Clams aren’t _birds_ ,” Eros said as he realized he had been _tricked_. Clams were Da’s _favourite_ food. It was much too cold to go wade in the water.

“So no,” Da said, and then he found another stick and gave it to Eros.

The clams they dug up were not like the ones they gathered in summer--these hid deep in the sand. Eros was sullen and he kicked the sand _lackadaisically_ but it was very different than summer clams since they could not wade in the water. They had to rush away from the incoming water like the little piper birds, and the water and sand both were frigid when they snatched the clams up. Soon, Eros forgot he was supposed to be angry he had been tricked, caught up in laughing and trying to find a clam bigger than Da and racing away from the surf.

They sat on a rock away from the water and ate their spoils.

“Are you really all right?” Eros asked.

“Yes,” Da said. “Are you?”

Eros blinked, but then he thought about it.

He was, he realized. He hadn’t realized he _wasn’t_.

“Yes,” Eros said.

“Good.” Da leaned over and planted a kiss on his head. “Let’s go back.”

They did not count birds on the way back. Eros was quiet, thinking about how he had not realized he felt badly and thinking about how Da had noticed. He thought about how Da had known what would make him feel better.

They went back a little slower, because it was uphill and Da _did_ get winded, a bit. When they got home, Mother was waiting, tapping a foot and arms crossed. Da cast his eyes down and acted shy which only made her yell at him more before she finally huffed and kissed him.

“Awful,” Mother said. “Eros, you shouldn’t let him _bully_ you.”

“He’s my father,” Eros said, widening his eyes and looking at her shocked.

It made her huff again and then laugh, and then she pulled him into a hug and kissed his head.

“You are both _horrible_ ,” Mother said. “Go _sit_ and I’ll bring tea.”

It felt a little better.

They went back to court not long after that.

**

It is spring at grandfather’s court, and Eros will be twelve soon. He is impatient for it--not long after his birthday is summer, and then they can all go back to Mother’s seaside estate.

In the meantime, though, he has to wait. Whenever he gets restless about how the days all take too long, he rubs at his necklace. He knows all his parent’s wear theirs, even though Father and Da keep theirs under their shirts. He has gotten very good at looking for the telltale flash of the gold chain at their necks since he was nine.

It is also easier because there is a new girl at court, Harmonia. She is older than him, shy and very sweet. She does not wholly believe all the things his cousins like to say about him. She didn’t even believe Alexiares when he told her that Eros broke his nose, which Eros is quite pleased with. She is also smart--she does not ever fully _admit_ she does not believe what his cousins say, because she has realized that court is full of all kinds of drama. She even beats him at chess, sometimes.

She is _horribly_ in love with one of the stable boys, and he with her. It is so painfully obvious to Eros, though clearly no one _else_ has noticed. He doesn’t know how they can’t see it.

Eros also does not see why they don’t simply _talk_ to each other--even if not with words. It is not always about words, love, and it _certainly_ isn’t about rank. He makes up a little bouquet full of gardenias and spring crocus and ties it with a pink ribbon.

He finds Harmonia alone and holds the bouquet out.

“From the stable boy,” he says. “He likes you terribly.”

She blushes pink, all the way to the roots of her hair.

“It’s not very nice to trick people,” Harmonia tells him, but she takes the bouquet anyway.

“He does,” Eros says. “You should talk to him.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Harmonia says.

“Then give him something back,” Eros says. “You can’t just take his bouquet and not send anything back. Even if it’s just a striped carnation and a bit of sweet basil.”

“What would that mean?”

“That you’re flattered but not interested.”

Harmonia blinks at him, then she gets a very thoughtful look on her face.

Eventually, he is sent back to the stable boy with aster and white camellias tied in one of Harmonia’s hair ribbons.

“Your highness,” the stable boy says, flustered.

“From Harmonia,” he says. “She loves the flowers you gave her.”

The stable boy blinks, almost looking up at him. Eros grins.

They don’t really need him after _that_ , though they both keep slipping him little tokens to carry between them. Eros is happy to do so until they settle on a place to leave their tokens instead and he enjoys a job well done.

By then, it is practically summer.

“You seem in good spirits,” Mother comments as she sorts through what to pack and what to leave--Acacia has already gone ahead. “I saw you’ve been giving that Harmonia girl _flowers_ and _ribbons_.”

“It’s not like that,” Eros says. “I was only helping her a little. She’s shy.”

“Tell me all about it,” Mother says, eyes lighting up. She _does_ love gossip.

“You can’t tell anyone!”

“I am offended you even _think_ you have to tell me that,” she huffs. “But I promise I will not.”

Anyone else at court might not believe her, but Eros does. He tells her about Harmonia and the stable boy--Cadmus--and about how they were just mooning over each other and not doing anything about it.

It makes Mother laugh, pleased.

“I daresay we raised you right,” Mother said, proud a way Eros has never heard her be. It startles him and makes his face flush a little pink. He had only done what was obvious to do.

“What’s that mean?” he asks.

“Nothing, dearest. Are you packed for tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Your fathers might not even be late at all this year, imagine.”

Eros grins. He would like that. It would mean a whole extra week together. It would mean an extra week of ripping up weeds and planting new flowers and checking on the birds. A whole extra week of folding the linens and midnight milk and breakfasts that slip between plates. A whole extra week of _them_ , and he cannot imagine anything better or luckier in the entire world.

And even if they _are_ a week late, it will still be lucky. He has two fathers, when most people only have one. He has two fathers who both always come as soon as they can, and who both love him as much as his mother loves him. He has three parents, all who love each other, and most of his cousins don’t even have _two_ who do more than _like_ each other.

No wonder none of them realized Harmonia and Cadmus were in love.

The trip the next day is boring as ever. The trees scream laden with insects and the air is heavy. There are not even clouds this time, and Eros feels bad for the carriage driver. He kicks his foot _petulantly_ and watches the sky go by and names the birds he sees.

They arrive. Eros hops out of the carriage first, eager to stretch his legs. He can smell the salt from the sea when the breeze blows just right. He remembers he’s _meant_ to help Mother down, but she’s already helped herself by the time he turns back around, fanning herself idly.

Eros hears the front door open behind him.

“Oh,” Mother says, then she smiles.

Eros turns, blinks.

“You’re late,” Father says, serious the way he only is when he’s pretending to be.

Eros breaks into a smile and runs, launching himself into his father. It knocks his father back a step, because Eros isn’t quite as small as he used to be, and then he is being crushed in a hug.

“Where is Da?” he asks, pulling back.

“Here,” Da says, ruffling his hair. Eros beams up at them both, then grabs Da for a hug, too.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Mother says, stamping a foot. “It is hot, there are _bags_ , and I want to go _inside_.”

“Oh,” they all three say, and then laugh.

Eros helps, this time--he can carry his own bag--and soon they are all inside and out of the sun. There is lemonade waiting for them and cake and strawberries and currants, and as they settle at the table, Eros grins, kicking his foot and making sure to scuff the bottom of his shoe on the floor, because he’s realized it drives Mother absolutely mad but she _refuses_ to say anything at all about it. He slouches against the table and eats strawberries and listens to his parents talk, scuffing his foot, and when Mother is not looking, he makes sure to slip the last currants onto her plate. Father catches him and smiles. Eros stops scuffing his foot as Mother notices the currants, as Father insists Da have the last of the cake, as Da agrees but only if Eros is allowed the last strawberry.

Eros cannot stop smiling.

It is summer, finally, always, so long as he has them.

**Author's Note:**

> I used the [good ol farmer's almanac](https://www.almanac.com/content/flower-meanings-language-flowers) for the flowers chosen in the fic, though I know it is a bit ahead of the vague period I gestured.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this <3


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